


No Experience Required

by thirty2flavors



Category: Borderlands (Video Games), Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Humor, Missing Scene, episode 3 roadtrip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 04:21:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10454829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirty2flavors/pseuds/thirty2flavors
Summary: “Alright,” Fiona says, with the air of someone reluctantly but patiently explaining the hard truth to a child, “look, I'm not saying we have one, or that we need one, I'm just saying, if wewereto have a leader, it would obviously be me.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the episode 3 roadtrip. 
> 
> Essentially an excuse to have Rhys and Fiona do my favourite thing: argue with each other.

“...does _that_ mean?”

“Oh, you know what I mean.”

“No, really, I'm not sure I do. Please elaborate.”

The sound of Sasha's boots dinging against the ladder rungs isn't enough to drown out Rhys and Fiona's bickering, and Sasha pauses halfway down to reconsider if she's really that hungry after all. 

(She is. Starving, in fact. So she continues down.) 

She hears someone sigh and looks over to assess the situation. Rhys and Fiona are seated across the table from each other, puffed up like peacocks and apparently unaware of their identical body language. Between them, frozen like oddly-shaped gargoyle, is Vaughn.

Sasha walks to the kitchenette and busies herself with a frying pan and a carton of eggs. She doesn’t need to know specifics to know precisely where this is going; Fiona’s competitive streak has been stuck in a positive feedback loop ever since she met Rhys. 

“Alright,” Fiona says, with the air of someone reluctantly but patiently explaining the hard truth to a child, “look, I'm not saying we _have_ one, or that we _need_ one, I'm just saying, if we were to have a leader, it would obviously be me.”

“Sorry, ‘obviously’?” sneers Rhys, one arm poised skeptically in her direction. “Are you sure you meant ‘obviously’? Maybe you meant to say another word, like ‘delusionally’, or—”

“I mean what I said, jackass,” Fiona insists, firm but unphased. “I know Pandora, I’m the oldest—”

“The oldest?” Rhys yelps. (Sasha wonders if he realizes his voice rises in pitch in tandem with incredulity.) “What’s that got to do with anything? You’re, like, a year older than me.”

Fiona shrugs, breezy and confident as always. “It was a rough year. Besides, who else would it be?”

Sasha opens her mouth to say I know Pandora, too, thinks better of it, and cracks an egg on the side of her pan instead. 

“Uh, someone with actual leadership skills, maybe?” 

There’s a beat, and then Fiona barks out one sharp laugh. “Wait, oh my God, are you talking about _you_? Why? ‘Cause you took a two-day Hyperion seminar on handshakes and motivational speaking?”

Sasha can’t help but sneak a look over at that.

“No,” scoffs Rhys, a denial made infinitely less convincing by the sudden pool of colour in his cheeks. “But—”

It’s too late; Fiona is laughing in earnest now. “A bunch of bandits come along, what're you gonna do? Wow ‘em with your cover letter?”

Rhys’ glare looks more like a pout. Sasha turns back to her eggs before he can notice her biting back laughter of her own. 

“A leader needs _personal skills_ ,” says Rhys, valiantly continuing on over top of Fiona’s guffawing. “Something you obviously lack.”

Fiona props her boots up on the table, ankles crossed. “Oh, please, I’ve got personal skills. I could sell sand to someone in a desert dying of thirst.” She pauses. “Actually, I’ve done that.”

“That’s not having personal skills, that’s lying—”

“Eh.”

“—and the point is: I’m the one who has actual experience leading a team of people.”

“Weren’t you a janitor?” 

“I’m not a janitor!”

“Yeah, whatever,” says Fiona. “Look, I'll definitely consult with you next time I need to sort my recyclables—”

“ _I'm not a janitor!_ ”

“—but let's leave the big decision stuff to me.”

Now it’s Rhys’ turn to laugh. “Your last ‘big decision’ was to throw a grenade into the air and hope for the best.”

“Hey, it worked, didn't it? And it's not like you came up with—well, _anything_.”

“I was… weighing my options,” he mutters. 

“Your options of ‘stand there and do nothing’ or ‘listen to me’? A real headscratcher, I’m sure.” 

“See, this is what I’m saying about people skills. Specifically, that you don’t have them.”

The hot speck of grease that flies out of the pan and burns Sasha’s wrist is a surprisingly welcome distraction. She refocuses on her eggs: fluffing them with the spatula, sprinkling in a conservative pinch of salt from their dwindling supply, indulging fantasies of all the rare, expensive, luxurious meals she’ll be able to afford once they find this damn vault, all the salt she could ever want—

The sound of her own name pulls her back.

“...Sasha’d vote for me,” Fiona’s saying. 

Full of resentment at being torn from her daydreams of seasoning, Sasha shakes her head. “Don’t drag me into—”

But Rhys cuts her off. “No way, Sasha doesn’t get a vote, that’s not fair!”

Spatula in hand at her hip, Sasha glares at him. Rhys catches her eye and shrinks back, his previously arrogant expression replaced by a meek apologetic cringe. 

“I just—I meant—I meant because you’re her sister, so … of course you’d… Uh…” 

Fiona looks and sounds like this is the most delightful turn of events she’s witnessed in days. “Nice people skills, moron.” 

“Okay,” says Sasha, “well now I definitely get a vote, and I’m definitely voting for Fiona.” 

Fiona clicks her tongue and winks at her sister, then raises a self-satisfied eyebrow at Rhys. “What’d I tell you?” Her arms stretch behind the back of her head as relaxes. 

Rhys looks at Sasha for another fearful second, apparently weighing the cost of her ire against his own ego, before deciding (to no surprise of Sasha’s) on the latter. “Well… it’d be a tie anyway, ‘cause I’ve got Vaughn’s vote, right buddy?”

He pats Vaughn’s shoulder affectionately; Vaughn’s entire body falls sideways on the booth.

“You don’t get to vote on behalf of him,” Fiona objects, tugging Vaughn upright again by looping one of her ankles under his elbow. 

Rhys readjusts Vaughn’s glasses. “It’s not like he can vote for himself right now.” 

“Pft, yeah, he’s probably relieved he doesn’t have to break your heart.” But she shrugs. “Anyway, whatever, fine, but that’s still only a tie, so don’t go printing any business cards yet.” 

There’s a moment where Rhys raises an eyebrow, uncomprehending. When it clicks, he gasps in horror before turning to gawp at Sasha, scandalized. 

“You told her about that?” he squawks. 

Whistling innocently, Sasha avoids his eyes and scoops her eggs onto a plate. 

“So that's how it is,” he says, as if it this the biggest betrayal he has ever experienced, so dramatic that—despite herself—Sasha feels a sudden twinge of affection. “Alright, alright, I get it, it’s fine, no honour among thieves, never bare your soul to a Pandoran, lesson learned, it's cool.”

Fiona scoots closer to Vaughn, making room for Sasha on the booth. “Dude, if your soul is business cards for children, you shouldn't bare it to anyone.”

“Yeah…” Sasha heaps scrambled egg onto her fork and into her mouth. “You should probably just, like, repress that for the rest of your life.”

Rhys wrinkles his nose while she eats, shaking his head. “One, Sasha, that’s disgusting, come on, don’t talk with your mouth full—”

Sasha sticks out her egg-covered tongue. 

“—and two, both of you dead to me.” 

“Hey,” says Fiona, “respect your leader.”

“Oh, my God—you are not— _augh_ ,” He leans away from the table, calling up to the door to the roof. “Hey, Loader Bot, ol’ buddy ol’ pal! You know I’d be a good leader, right? You’d vote for me, right?”

Loader Bot lumbers across the roof with a thunk, thunk, his red eye appearing at the top of the ladder.

“I have… some concerns…”

Rhys’ mouth drops open; Fiona roars with laughter. 

“...about… both of you.”

Fiona’s laugh dies abruptly, and Sasha chokes on her egg. 

Rhys blinks. “Huh. Okay, that’s, uh, that’s... not helpful at all, actually. Thanks.” 

“Just… keeping it real,” Loader Bot says, wobbling in a way that leaves Sasha to believe he is shrugging his enormous robotic shoulders. 

Determination renewed (and ego wounded) after having her authority undermined by a robot, Fiona slaps the table. “That’s it. We’re settling this.” She turns towards the front of the caravan. “Gortys! Can you come here for a sec?”

Gortys is mid-story, gesturing animatedly to a characteristically bored-looking Athena, when Fiona calls her name, and she spins to look at them all. “Absolutely!”

“Fiona—” Rhys hisses, like dragging poor unsuspecting Gortys into this mess is a line even he’s not quite ready to cross, but it’s too late: she’s already zoomed down the stairs, clattering the whole way.

She skitters to the edge of the table, more ecstatic than any creature Sasha has ever seen, robot or otherwise. “How can I help?”

“We just have a question,” says Fiona, leaning across Sasha to get closer to Gortys’ eye level. “And we promise no one’s gonna get upset, no matter what the answer is.” She shoots a pointed look across the table. “Right, Rhys?”

Rhys’ willingness to argue with Fiona’s methods evaporates in the face of Gortys’ eagerness. “Uh…. right.” He nods. “Promise.”

“Oh boy,” says Gortys, nerves creeping into the enthusiasm. “Is it a hard question? What if I don’t know the answer?”

Rhys and Fiona exchange another look, and then Fiona turns back to Gortys. 

“It’s not a hard question,” Fiona says. (Sasha snorts.) “Rhys and I were just wondering—”

“Between the two of us—”

“Which of us you think would be a better leader—”

“You know, if we had one.”

Gortys looks back and forth between them, her little fingers fidgeting. “I don’t know…” she says hesitantly. “That IS a hard question.” She rocks from side to side as she considers. “I mean, you’re both so smart, and so brave, and so beautiful….”

Sasha shoots them a look. “God, is this what it sounds like in your heads, like, all the time?”

But Rhys and Fiona are preoccupied.

“That… was absurdly adorable,” Rhys says. “Thanks, Gortys.”

“Yeah,” says Fiona. 

“But I’d just like to put out there that I have actual management experience—”

“At Hyperion,” Fiona interjects. “I’ve got experience here, on Pandora, and—”

Before she can complete the thought, the caravan slams to a sudden stop, tossing its occupants about the cabin. 

Rhys topples into Vaughn, smashing his head against Vaughn’s elbow; Fiona flails and nearly kicks Sasha in the face; Sasha’s eggs slide across the table and end up in her lap; Gortys collides into Sasha’s calf.

“Oh. My. _GOD._ Will you both just _SHUT UP_?” 

Looking murderous, Athena stands behind the driver’s seat, her arms thrown wide in frustration.

“ _I’m_ in charge now, alright? Does that help?” she roars. “I’m the leader, and I am telling you both to _SHUT UP_.” She closes her eyes and exhales, her voice returning to a normal volume. “Okay?”

For a second of stunned silence, no one moves. 

Then Fiona sits up straight, pulls her feet off the table and folds her hands neatly in her lap. “Yep, that works for me.”

Rhys nods eagerly. “Absolutely, that’s—that’s—I mean—yeah. For sure. Sounds great.”

Athena’s face slowly returns to its regular colour. “Good.” 

Then, without another word, she turns, sits, and starts up the caravan again.

Stock-still like scolded schoolchildren, Rhys and Fiona stare dumbly across the table at each other. Sasha looks mournfully down at the remnants of her lunch.

Gortys breaks the silence, detaching herself from Sasha’s leg. “Wow!” she exclaims. “Athena solved it for us!” She rolls back, immune to the change in energy in the room. “That’s so great. You guys had a problem, and Athena knew the answer… What a good leader!” 

Merrily climbing back to the front of the caravan, Gortys leaves the stunned table behind. With a sigh, Sasha places her plate back on the table and bends down to gather the mess as best she can.

For a moment the only sound is Sasha rinsing her plate. Fiona casts a wary glance towards the driver’s seat, then beckons Rhys closer. Curious, he leans forward.

Fiona moves in, too, and drops her voice to a low whisper. “Arm wrestle you for it?”

He grins. “You’re on.”


End file.
